No Plan B (Jack Reacher, #27)(31)

“Cool.” The guy swung back into the aisle and headed for his own seat. “Traveling for hours makes me hungry. See you later…”





Chapter 19


Twelve hundred miles away, in Winson, Mississippi, it was time for Curtis Riverdale to get busy.

Riverdale was an anomaly within the Minerva corporation. An outlier. He was unusual because he was in his post when the prison got taken over. Minerva’s standard procedure was to sideline the existing warden when a new site was bought. Shift him into some kind of impotent, figurehead position. Wait for the boredom and humiliation to eat away at him until he found a job somewhere else. And if he tried to stick it out, fire him, hot on the heels of a third of his staff.

The process had gotten under way as usual. A bunch of new guards had been drafted in. Proven Minerva people from the company’s other facilities. Tailor made to slot in place of the guys who’d just been discarded. The new warden was installed at the same time. A tall, skinny forty-year-old who dressed like a banker and spoke like a radio host. He did all the usual new-boss things to prove he could walk and talk at the same time. But he didn’t settle in Winson. He kept getting sick. He spent more time in the hospital than at work. After six months he couldn’t take it anymore. He quit. And during the new guy’s many absences Riverdale took the opportunity to step back up. He proved himself invaluable. Adaptable. Discreet. Able to fit into Minerva’s mode of operation in a way Hix had never seen in a warden his company had inherited.

Some correctional corporations treat the business of incarceration as if they were supermarkets. They take a kind of pile-them-high, sell-them-cheap approach. But Minerva wasn’t like that. Right from the start Hix and Brockman had a different view of what they did. They saw themselves as being more like prospectors in the Old West. Their goal was the same. To sort the gold from the dirt. Only they didn’t use shovels and buckets and sieves. They had a system. One they had devised themselves. They had refined it. Improved it. And they used it to sift through the constant stream of inmates sent by the states they had contracts with.

The process started with the freshly convicted. The new fish. Lawyers evaluated their cases. Accountants reviewed their finances. Genealogists traced their family trees. Then aptitude tests were administered. Inmates with certain skills and talents were identified. Psychologists were brought in to assess their personalities. The suitable ones were selected. The rest were sent to the doctors along with the other prisoners. A whole bunch of screening procedures were carried out. Treatments were prescribed wherever necessary. And after each individual was fully scrutinized and categorized, it was decided which facility to send them to.

The first category of prisoner had the potential for their convictions to be quashed, either for PR or for profit. They were distributed evenly throughout Minerva’s sites. The second had no special potential. This was the largest group by far. The corporation’s bread and butter. Dull, but necessary. Most of its members went to Minerva’s older prisons but some were brought to Winson for appearance’s sake. The third category was smaller. More interesting. All its members came to Winson. And the fourth category was smaller still. It wasn’t interesting, exactly. But it was lucrative. Often there was only one person in it on any given day. Sometimes there were two. Sometimes there were none at all.

That afternoon there was a single prisoner in the fourth category. He was housed all alone in Unit S1. The segregation unit that was still selectively operational. So that was where Riverdale started his rounds. He had arrangements to make. Personnel to organize. Processing. Packaging. Distribution. There was a whole complex operation to keep on the rails.

That was assuming everything went according to plan on Friday. If not the place would be mothballed. Indefinitely. And a lot of Minerva staff would find themselves on their way to other prisons. Where they would wind up on the other side of the bars.



* * *



—

Jack Reacher left Gerrardsville, Colorado, on foot, the same way he had arrived two days earlier.

As he walked Reacher thought about the best way to get to his destination. Winson, Mississippi. He had never heard of the place before he saw it printed on Angela St. Vrain’s driver’s license. He had been planning on a detour to Gerrardsville’s library to learn more about it but while they were still on the bench in Wiles Park Detective Harewood had taken out his phone. Pulled up a map. Of sorts. An indistinct multicolored tangle of roads and other features on a small, scratched screen. But enough to show Reacher the general location of the town. It was on the very edge of the state, no more than a dot, nestled into a C-shaped curve on the east bank of the Mississippi River.

Finding his way to Winson would not be a problem. Reacher was more worried about how long the journey would take. He had two dead bodies on his mind. At least one killer was on the loose. With at least one accomplice. On a trail that was getting colder by the minute. He had plenty of energy. He had cash in his pocket. But not much time.

The mountains were to his right, sawing away at the clear blue sky. The sun was turning pink and starting to dip down toward their highest peaks. It was still warm but Reacher’s shadow was growing longer, dancing and skipping across the rough, bleached blacktop at his side. The air was still. It was quiet. No cars had gone by since he had crossed the town boundary. No vans. No trucks. Normally Reacher would have enjoyed the solitude. But not today. It only added to his growing impatience.